


some of them want to abuse you

by squilf



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fingerfucking, Genderswap, enjoy your stay, oh so much fingerfucking, pretty fucked-up porn, welcome to the Hannibal fandom, yeah this is just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squilf/pseuds/squilf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Hanni Lecter were a good woman, she would let Wilona Graham be.</p><p>Hanni Lecter is not a good woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	some of them want to abuse you

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [some of them want to abuse you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9470312) by [allzlovers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allzlovers/pseuds/allzlovers)



> Title from [Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C0k75F9Qjdk/), because I love Marilyn Manson more than is probably appropriate. (The working title was “Femmibal”. I thought it was clever at the time.)
> 
> Kisses to the lovely [George](http://red-remy.tumblr.com//) for beta-ing this. (NB. Kisses are people.)

If Hanni Lecter were a good woman, she would let Wilona Graham be. She would let her lie, sleepless and restless, in her little bed in her little house. She would let her dream of guns and knives and axes, bright sharp things cutting into her when she shuts her eyes. She would let her live, and she wouldn’t care.

Hanni Lecter is not a good woman.

Which is why when Will traipses into her house, cold and hungry and dripping with exhaustion, she gives her a hot chocolate. Laced with a narcotic. She isn’t one to let opportunity pass her by.

“Oh,” Hanni says, when Will is slumped on her sofa, her hand trailing onto the floor (and Hanni imagines blood dripping down her outstretched arm, pooling around her fingers), “You can’t sleep there.”

She kicks off her shoes – six-inch heels, Saint Laurent – and picks Will up, as though she were her bride. Her dead bride, her head buried in Hanni’s chest. Hanni takes her to the guest bedroom nearest to her room, lies her down on the thousand thread count sheets.

If she were a good woman, she would let Will be. She doesn’t.

Hanni kneels beside the bed, leans over. Her hair drops down onto Will, the soft strands grazing her face. Will moans, the sound raw.

“Ssh,” Hanni breathes, brushes the hair from Will’s shut eyes, strokes her cheek with the back of her hand.

She holds Will’s face in her hands, thumbs rubbing against her cheekbones, the movements slow, the pressure light.

“Go to sleep,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper.

Will mumbles something, struggles weakly against Hanni’s hands, but Hanni holds her down, presses her elbows against Will’s clavicle.

“Sleep,” she says.

Will relaxes, drops back onto the bed with a little moan, her hair splayed out across the pillow.

“Good girl,” says Hanni, her hands sliding up into Will’s hair.

She runs her fingers through the tangled curls, leans down to press her face to them, to breathe in and smell Will, sweet perfume and honeyed soap and something full and musty that has to be her dogs.

“Dear Will,” she sighs.

She shuts her eyes, lies there, breathes Will in. Her hand slips down to Will’s neck, feels her fragile pulse trembling against her fingers. Hanni could dig her nails into that pulse, could stain them with her blood, could lick them clean, she thinks. But she won’t. She won’t hurt her Will. Hanni’s hand moves lower, to Will’s chest, rising and falling, her breaths slow and heavy with sleep. Then lower, to her stomach, shifting her shirt up to touch the warm skin beneath. Hanni lifts her head, looks down at Will, her face pinched with worry even in her sleep.

“What do you dream of, to make you frown?” she asks, kisses Will’s eyelids.

She pulls back. Will looks calmer, her brow smooth, her lips parted.

“Hm?” she says, as though she expects an answer.

And then she ducks down to press a kiss to Will’s lips, the hand on her stomach slipping lower. Will’s breath catches in her throat, a little gasp. Hanni smiles, keeps going. She sits up, wedges her knee between Will’s legs, reaches down to unbutton and unzip Will’s jeans. Will stirs, squirming under her, but Hanni puts her hands to her hips, holds her down.

“Ssh,” she says, kisses Will’s stomach, her collarbone, her neck.

Then she pushes her hand down, underneath Will’s underwear, to the rough hair there, to something soft and slick. She circles her fingers around Will’s clit, just feeling, almost innocent in her gentleness. Will groans, and Hanni watches her, the flush starting to spread across her cheeks, the shape of her open mouth. Hanni dives down to lick her way inside it, pulls up quickly. She makes her movements a little harder, a little longer, but still so, so slow.

Will’s mouth opens and shuts wordlessly. Hanni pushes deeper, lets her nails scrape a little against Will’s flesh, just enough for her to feel it. Will shudders. Hanni lets the pressure build up, pushes deeper, until she’s plunging into Will, curling and uncurling her fingers inside her. Will’s back arches off the bed, and she whimpers, helpless.

Hanni works her fingers in and out, drawing out a wrecked whine from Will. She doesn’t stop, rocks back and forward until Will’s jerking and keening beneath her, her hands gripping the sheets. And then she freezes, lets out a low, long moan, and her fingers straighten and she sinks back onto the bed, boneless. Hanni feels her muscles contract and relax around her, strokes her through it, until Will is breathing deep and slow, her face leant into the pillow. She pulls her fingers out, puts them to her lips, sucks. She coats her tongue in something sticky, tastes Will. She tastes like salt, and want.

Hanni does Will’s jeans back up, drapes herself over her, covers Will’s body with hers, buries her face in Will’s hair.

“Sweet dreams,” she says, kisses her cheek.

And then, she lets Wilona Graham be.

 

 

Light is filtering through the linen curtains when Hanni steps into Will’s room with a cup of coffee.

“Good afternoon,” she says, sits on the end of the bed.

Will lifts her head, lets it fall back onto the pillow, groans. Then she shoves herself upright, sheets rucking up around her waist. Her shirt is slipping down one shoulder, her hair falling over her eyes.

“Afternoon?” Will says.

Hanni nods, holds out the coffee.

“It’s one o’clock.”

“I don’t usually sleep that well,” says Will, and takes it.

“Bad dreams?”

“Yeah.”

“But not last night?”

Will looks down at the cup and saucer, delicate bone china.

“No. Well, yes, I dreamt, but it wasn’t – it wasn’t like usual.”

She takes a sip of her coffee.

“Nice dreams?” asks Hanni.

Will meets her eyes, only for a second.

“Yes,” she says, drinks more, “Quite nice.”

Hanni smiles, and Will doesn’t see it.


End file.
